


this one belongs to me

by DottyDot



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, forehead kiss, jonsa, reunion at castle black, season 6, traveling the north
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:56:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22694422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DottyDot/pseuds/DottyDot
Summary: Even when the wind blew, chapping their cheeks, and he shrugged his furs higher until they hid his face, longing to ride to warmth rather than to war, Sansa sat demurely on her horse with her furs arranged just so, smiling at his discomfort as if she were the one grown accustomed to the cold by living beyond the Wall, “A few years in the South will have you craving the cold too, Jon. The sun bites as cruel as the snow.”
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 35
Kudos: 144
Collections: JonsaValentine2020





	this one belongs to me

_"An albino.” Theon Greyjoy said with wry amusement. “This one will die even faster than the others"_

_Jon Snow gave his father’s ward a long, chilling look. "I think not, Greyjoy,” he said. “This one belongs to me."_

_AGOT, Bran I_

* * *

Red hair, pale face, mud splattered across her cheeks, but all he could see were her eyes, Tully beauty, Stark fierceness, eyes that he would know no matter how her face had changed. He was before her, without intending to lift a foot, somehow he was standing close enough to hear her ragged breaths, and then he felt them against his cheek, against his ear, as she fell into his arms.

Everything ended; everything began again.

With her arms around his neck, for the first time after coming back, he didn’t feel lost. He thought this was how it was meant to be. And yet, he was no longer the boy she called half-brother, this Sansa was not the sister he left behind.

Instead of searching for an enemy to fight, he wanted to never fight again, but Sansa, the radiant girl who braided ribbons into her hair, who used to sing, who used to dream, she demanded blood.

They argued. They fought over which Northern Lord to approach first, over where to make camp, over how they cooked hares for dinner. Aggravation and pleasure existing in tandem, every conversation both infuriating and thrilling. For alongside every disagreement came acceptance, and following every compliment came a scolding.

She told him he looked like father, just after she told him he was wrong. She told him his reputation had spread through the North, even as she returned the meat to the fire to cook it more to her taste. She told him he was a knight from her songs, only better, because he was real, and then she told him that he was weak for wanting to set up their tents now, they could ride for another hour yet.

She was his peace; she was his war.

Arya was the sister who had been called obstinate, but this Sansa had a dauntless will, and even while he raised his voice, and her cheeks flushed red, he admired it. He loved it. He wished he had the same.

He would fight for her though he also fought _with_ her.

Even while they argued, she stripped the meat from the bone and divvied out portions, giving him more, taking less for herself, never forgetting Ghost.

Even as they disagreed, she pulled him down to sit next to her and mended a hole on his sleeve, her fingers sliding along his skin to lift the shirt safely away from his arm, stitching perfectly, precisely. A stuttered “thank you,” and she was back to her case, insisting they go to another castle, remind another Lord of his duty.

Even when the wind blew, chapping their cheeks, and he shrugged his furs higher until they hid his face, longing to ride to warmth rather than to war, Sansa sat demurely on her horse with her furs arranged just so, smiling at his discomfort as if she were the one grown accustomed to the cold by living beyond the Wall, “A few years in the South will have you craving the cold too, Jon. The sun bites as cruel as the snow.”

And even when she fumed because he _would_ have his own mind, and he _would_ choose to reject her advice, she slipped her hand into his, never saying it but her eyes telling him, _you are the only one I have left_. His fingers compulsively closed around hers, for it was as true for him as for her.

Davos watched them, tried not to intervene, shaking his head, concerned, sometimes amused by their arguments and how Jon could not help but respond to Sansa’s fury. “Your wolf is taken with her.”

Jon glanced at the woman who had been his sister once, sitting by the campfire, Ghost sprawled over her, paws muddying her skirts, head pressed back against her chest as she scratched his throat, pale fingers lost in his white fur. The red of her hair, now clean, falling around her shoulders, brilliant, but still darker than Ghost’s eerie eyes.

“If we lose, she won’t survive.” Davos whispered, the words, the thought so consuming Jon couldn’t hear anything beyond them. “I’ve heard of Bolton, what he does. She’ll die slow.”

Sansa hadn’t told him much, but he saw her grimace when she thought he wasn’t looking, he heard her at night, he knew that she wept. And while he did not want to fight, and he did not want war, while he had thought that death had taken desire from him, he wanted one thing: that bastard’s blood.

“Jon, if you lose—”

A glance, dark eyes full of fury, full of fear. Davos never finished his sentence but sat quietly with the dead man whose chest rose and fell the same as his, watching the girl and the wolf.

* * *

He had nearly killed him. Everything was forgotten but his fury, the mud, the blood, the life that was nearly his, death slipping between his fingers, and then his name, she was looking at him, watching. He stopped, coming back to himself at once, summoned by her, a call he could not ignore.

He had lost another one, his last brother, and Sansa was the only Stark. She told him Arya had been seen, that she might still live, but Jon could not hope. Sansa had not left all her fancies behind her, even now.

Winterfell was empty of all he had loved, but to be home once more, to bathe in a room he had long given up seeing again, to run his hand along the chairs in the great hall at the table he had never been permitted to sit, there was sweetness here. Perhaps he understood Sansa’s hope after all. And then, he banished a woman for murder, watched the person who gave him a second life ride away, without yet understanding the meaning of it.

Sansa came to him, remorseful, and he felt shame at his own anger, shame for not listening, because while she hadn’t told him of a solution, he had not been willing to listen to her answers. He had been so sure of their failure he had not given them the chance of victory. But she was determined, and she took it. From beneath trampling feet, from death, she claimed him.

The dead were coming, winter too, but she smiled at him, and he could not help smiling at her, and he thought of all that lay before them, of everything that lay behind, of what their fate had been, of how they had thwarted it. Davos’s words rang in his ears, _she’ll die slow_.

Jon placed his hands on her head, brought her forehead to his lips, _I think not, Davos._ _This one belongs to me_.

**Author's Note:**

> I would love to read other Jonsa fics based on this line or Jon finding Sansa in the snow the way he found Ghost, so if you’ve read one or write one, please let me know. I think it’s perfect for them!


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